Abandon
by Rinkinkirs
Summary: It doesn't matter, he tells himself. It would have happened sooner or later. And his socks aren't dirty, no matter what Dean says. Wincest-ish.


**Notes:** I haven't seen one single episode of Supernatural. (I know, it's horrible.) I've asked in four shops, but they're all sold out of season one, and I have a slow internet connection. And, well... I kind of grew fond of the fandom.

So if I've molested their characters entirely, please tell me?

**Warnings:** Sam/Dean-ish, hints at incest (nothing much), angst angst _angst_.

* * *

**Abandon**

For every passing day, he cares a little less. He stops eating – not because he has angsty ideas of lovesickness and abstaining from food, he just can't be bothered. When the hunger gnaws at him, he drinks a cup of coffee to settle it, and then it's forgotten.

Mostly, he stays on the sofa. When he gets a back ache, he drags the sheets and blankets to the floor and creates a nest for himself, staring blankly at the TV screen. His life is so different from when things mattered, simple things like making food and eating and who got to drive and who had to ride shotgun, but the effort of chewing something tangible suddenly seems like a mountain of work – and he's not going anywhere, so it hardly matters if his ribs are starting to show and his hair is sticky with grease.

Perhaps, if he hadn't said anything, he wonders for the hundredth time, stopping himself in the middle of the sentence. 'What does it matter?' he thinks.

It doesn't matter.

Sooner or later he would have slipped up, he knows. Just as well that it happened now. Dean could still have a happy life, anyway. He shouldn't bother him about it.

Dean shouldn't have made him come back from his dream world of marriage and becoming a lawyer. There is a certain sense of irony in that Dean drove him away by simply being there, and now Sam has done the same, and for the very same reason.

He hopes Dean is all right, that he hasn't gone and done something stupid again. Sam knows he's a worry-wart, even though he would never admit it out loud, but Dean does a lot of things that should be worried about.

Sam is not weak. Pathetic – in light of the situation, yes – but not weak.

Though he can't help but wonder when he can't walk the next time he tries.

Someone knocks at the door, some time in the day. It's cloudy. He doesn't know what month it is.

The moon casts a silvery light over the floor, and he imagines the sound of howling. It's so cold. He's pretty sure he's never been so cold before. But when he wraps himself up in the blankets, it gets too warm, and he throws them away as far as he can, which doesn't seem to be all that far these days.

He's turning weak, he realises. But now there's no one to protect him anymore. The thought makes him cold, but his arms – hardly any muscles left, he mourns – can't reach the blankets.

He laughs, only to be interrupted by harsh coughs. He hasn't felt this horrible for years.

His father reprimands him for not making his bed. Sam tries to explain that he needed the blankets, but the raspy sound that escapes his throat can't be his voice. Then his father kisses his forehead, tells him to stop lying.

"You're doing it on purpose," his father says, but Sam doesn't know what he means. "Sleep, Sam."

His vision fades to black.

There are lots of lights in his dreams, and kisses accompanied by an unshaven chin brushing along his neck. And Dean smiles at him, for a moment, but then his eyes turns hateful and he tells Sam to go away, that people like him aren't worth the dirty socks they're wearing. Sam tells him that his socks are clean, but Dean won't listen.

He wakes up and can't remember when he fell asleep. Someone is knocking at the door again, but he doesn't have enough air left to speak.

When he starts to black out again, he can only think that it's about time.

Dean is knocking on the table. Sam watches the swollen hand, puzzled. He tells him to stop. But Dean doesn't stop. His fingers knock against the table again, and again, and again, until there's splashes of blood around it and Dean's face is splattered with red.

Yet, he keeps knocking.

Sam opens his eyes. There's still knocking. There's a shadow outside the window, but his vision won't clear. He tries to lift his arm in greeting, but can't. The shadow knocks on the glass. He turns his head, and the shadow disappears.

The door opens, and his father walks in.

"You silly boy," he says. "Can't you even take care of yourself? Grow up."

Sam wants to say that he grew up a long time ago, but doesn't want to find out what voice his body speaks with. He sounds like one of the creatures they hunt, and he doesn't want his father to kill him.

Someone knocks at the door, and his father is gone.

"You're going to hell for this," Dean's voice says. "No new chances."

Sam looks at the shoes by his face, too tired to glance up.

"You're no brother of mine."

That hurts, but he already knows. Dean hates him. John doesn't care, so Sam won't either, 'cause then perhaps his father thinks he has grown up.

Light stings his eyes, and he blinks. There are dark blurs moving across the room.

He doesn't want to grow up anymore, he thinks. Growing up only gives you more trouble than you can handle.

Dean tells him that it's going to be okay.

Sam tries to say that it will be, once he's gone.

Black.

-

"They weren't sure you'd wake up," Dean says. He doesn't sound very upset, but he rarely does.

"For a moment there, I wasn't sure I wanted to."

He hadn't realised how sickly thin he was – he can see the bones in his arms and hands, and he's so skinny that it looks like he's going to break. Next to Dean, he suddenly seems small again. Like a little brother, once more. It feels strange to see Dean like he used to, as someone big and safe and strong.

Dean sits down by his side on the hospital bed, brushes his fingers through Sam's hair. It feels as if the last two months have been erased, but Sam sees a shadow in Dean's eyes that was absent before. Sam hides behind his eyelids, not wanting to see the darkness he put there.

"Sam," Dean says. "I can't give you everything."

Sam looks at him, not understanding. He doesn't want to ask – his throat hurts, and his head is aching – but Dean seems to sense his confusion.

"I can't give you everything, Sam," he says, "but I can't let you go, either." Dean bends down to kiss Sam's brow, and leans down to whisper in his ear. "You ever tell anyone 'bout the chick flick moment there, and I'm not gonna be responsible for my actions."

Sam has too much of a headache to figure out what exactly that means, but when Dean's mouth brushes against his own, there's not much left to comprehend.


End file.
